


Hell is Ours to Face.

by chamcmile



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, F/M, Romance, Smut, TBT, eventual killer!meg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 10:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14932554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamcmile/pseuds/chamcmile
Summary: Benedict Baker left behind journals saying that hope is lost through the soul when a survivor is given up for sacrifice; but what about when your friends turn on you and go back on everything they've ever said?





	1. Time as a Concept

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is my first Dead by Daylight fanfiction. The chapters will not be long at all, more like a large collection of drabbles,,,,, but that means more frequent updates and less of me losing inspiration like I always do always pumping out two big chapters :') This stems off of my idea for Killer!Meg, so enjoy the journey! This is also up on FF.net, as well as my Meg roleplay blog. Read on whichever site is best for you.

Time was a concept that simply didn’t exist in what Meg had begun to call ‘the Realm.’ Eternal night, no indication that anything but minutes passed. Even those felt like it just reset when she was sacrificed. Each hook would turn back the clock, but the events stayed, as did her choices. 

 

Meg was the definition of a spitfire. Always shouting at people, even if it was death personified standing in front of her. Her temper couldn’t be handled, not even by someone she had grown close to in the hell of a place she was trapped in: Claudette. The botanist simply smiled and let the former athlete go on her rampages, sometimes resulting in the redhead running off into the foggy woods surrounding the campsites. Perhaps that personality was what drew Evan to the slender female. The constant spitting and hissing, like a rabid animal that simply could not be contained. Sometimes she was sacrificed anyway. 

 

The girl never seemed to learn. Her incessant insults wouldn’t draw his attention when he had prey at his feet, but it always stirred something in the bottom of his stomach. Something the Whispers did not like. Was it humanity? A slithering sliver of recognition that despite it all, he was still something real? The Trapper pushed it down and let his rage fuel his hunts. 

 

That pattern continued. She would yell to distract, run, hurt him, and he would relish in the way his cleaver sliced into her freckled flesh like it was made of toughened butter. Meg would never learn that in the end, she couldn’t save the survivors she had reluctantly come to call her friends. It would even come down to yelling at others when they wouldn’t do what needed to be done to get out; the ginger wound up hurting their relationships. She was stubborn. No matter the killer faced, she would run, run,  _ run _ until she could no more. Not even she could run from the way the hook was driven into her shoulder, how it narrowly missed bone each time. Just  enough to leave her on the verge of darkened vision and painful whimpers.

 

When it came to a point that Meg would yell at the Trapper, or break one of his traps and watch him go on by to someone else, she wasn't sure as to how much time had passed. A day? A year? Years? 

 

Such behavior struck Meg as odd; she watched Laurie running off in the distance, ways away from the generator she was working on. A slip of the wire resulted from Meg being unfocused, causing the light to blind her for a second and the machinery to rumble unhappily. “Dammit,” the athlete murmured. Still, the smiling killer would not turn near her. 

 

“Let’s keep on working,” Claudette said as she reached a hand out to her energy-filled friend. It took Meg a second to look back, dry lips parted with hesitance. 

 

“Let’s keep on working.” 

  
  



	2. Everyone I Know's a Kid

Feet angrily paced around two logs, connected to a pair of sturdy legs, which would have been bouncing were it not for the owner standing up. Meg Thomas was circling the campfire, never getting too hot or burned, courtesy of the Entity. None of it made sense. 

 

“Hey, Meg, come sit down, yeah?” The redhead barely heard Claudette as she looked back, finding the woman patting the space on the old tree trunk lazily. Meg begrudgingly took a seat and slumped her back. 

 

Claudette’s chocolate irises scanned her friend with worry, the bridge of her nose wrinkling up as she held her words back. Many hard lessons had taught that Meg would only talk when she wanted to do it. Instead, she raised a hand again, not caring about a gash on the back of her arm that bled the salmon shirt ruby. It would heal with sleep. The second Meg felt the woman’s empathetic touch on her shoulder, the athlete sighed and placed her chin in her hands. 

 

“Claudette, we're good friends, right?” 

 

“I'd like to think so, yes,” was the other’s quiet reply. 

 

“And that means I can tell you something that's bothering me? Not about you, but something I need to get off of my chest.” Those words caused the botanist to smile. 

 

“Of course, Meg.” 

 

Meg drew her shoulders away and turned towards Claudette, a finger fiddling with the sleeve on her right arm. “It's the Trapper. This is going to sound extremely odd and perhaps a bit unthankful, but he-  _ it _ doesn't… chase me anymore. I break hi- its traps with Jake, and it's only Jake. I save someone, there's no indication that they were ever focused down in the first place.” 

 

Claudette hummed as she looked towards the fire, flames reflected in her glasses. 

 

“Don't be so worried. Laurie has been in our trials a lot more. She's always the obsession, so she gets the majority of attention.” The botanist lowered her voice to a hush, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. “I wouldn't be surprised if every killer was so tied up with her because of what she does for us. And I heard Nea saying that she  _ enjoyed _ it.” 

 

Meg snorted, a wave of disgust settling in her stomach. They were acting like they were still in highschool. Gossiping about a girl who always saved their asses. 

 

“Laurie isn't like that. She's nice. Go ask her if you're really unsure. You two shouldn't be talking like that about other survivors. We're in this together. Even if we don't like someone,” she flatly stated, looking over to Dwight as he laid down on his jacket. 

 

“Okay, but really, I'm sure you'll get your ‘fun’ chases soon enough.”  Claudette quoted the air as Meg stood up, brows knitted together as she looked to the blonde who was fiddling with a rock on the other side of the fire. 

 

“I'm sure. Thanks for the talk, Claudette,” Meg thanked her with a smile.  _ Thanks for really reassuring me _ , she thought to herself, sliding down to the other end of the log that Laurie was on. 

 

“Laurie,” Meg prompted, drawing her attention. That was something Meg had noticed about the Strode girl immediately. She was always so attentive; reading the situation. 

 

“If you ever need some distraction in the trials, someone to run for you, you just scream. Or let me know now.” Panic rose in Meg’s throat as Laurie laughed lightly at her, tucking a sharpened rock onto her pocket. Had she said something wrong? Something to be made fun of? 

 

“That's sweet, Meg. I've got it. I always have ways to escape.” Yet something in Laurie’s tone seemed off. A loud laugh from Nea made Meg’s head turn, Claudette smiling lightly with what seemed like disbelief. 

 

A sigh quickly left Meg’s lips. Even after she had said something. Some survivors just didn't let their situation change their ways. 

 

“Well, just in case. Scream and I'll run to you if I can.” Meg stood and brushed the dirt off of the back of her running pants, finding a place by an old trash can to lay her old jacket down on. 

 

The ginger figured it would be better to get some sleep and let her wounds heal up before the next trial rather than ruminate over her talk with Claudette. 


End file.
